The Coldest End
by wrestlefan4
Summary: What led them to the end that was heard around the world? It wasn't hate, just a twisted love that neither of them could hold onto much longer, and yet would never be able to let go of. Follow Bret and Shawn on their journey and see for yourself.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **_**I'll just leave it at this. I've had a lot going on in recent months, and I haven't been inspired to write much. My other fics except for a couple which I do really want to finish, are most likely on hiatus. I know I shouldn't start anything new but oh well. I'm going there. **

**People probably get tired of me starting my fics and struggling to finish them, it's not that I don't want to, it's just that I tend to get a little discouraged what with lack of inspiration, the crud that is most times Monday night Raw, and the fact that a lot of really good stories get lost in the crap on this site. I know I have my issues with updating regularly but believe me, I put so much into what I do write and I wont update something just to have an update. If I don't feel it, I wont update, because I don't like half-ass. It has to be good, it has to be full on, or I wont update. It's not a lack of respect for my readers to leave them hanging, it is respect for you guys because I don't want to just cop out and post crap just to have something posted. Anyway, I'm done rambling about that now. **

**So, I have decided to go here. I've noticed that a lot of older pairings or classic pairings don't seem to get much reading/reviews these days, and I think it's a damn shame because without these guys your Cena, Orton, Hardy, anyone else you want to throw in there, wouldn't be where they are today if not for the guys who came before them. Just because you see the names of men who are retired, semi-retired, or who are oldschool superstars, you shouldn't just turn away you should at least give it a try. **

**Remember where your wrestling came from, remember the classics, because I guarantee you there are few who can live up to some of the greats in the history of the business—back when it was still an entertaining sport more than sports entertainment. Please do not be closed minded, and please be open to stories that are more than smut (don't get me wrong, yes I read/write smut sometimes, but there is more out there than two or more hot men getting it on) open your mind to something new and something deeper than just a good fuck. That's all I ask when you see an oldschool pairing by anyone on this site—because yes I do know of a few other than myself who write classic pairings. Anyway, I had to get that out of the way. :-) **

**I want to tell you straight up so you know what to expect. I'm sure updates for this will not be quick since 1) research 2) job 3) it's Bret and Shawn, for hells sake 4) emotions 5) I don't half ass. So please keep that in mind, and don't give up on me. This fic and this pairing is important to me, and when I say something like that, I mean the hell out of it.**

**Special thanks to: Nef for being amazing, inspiring, and an awesome friend. I luv you girl. Thanks to DK for letting me always bounce ideas off of her and for making me smile when I feel like crap. ;-) I luv you too bb. Thanks to Takers Dark Lover for PMing me when I seem to disappear from the face of the planet. Thanks to Thor for sharing my love for oldschool, and rping like a mutha. Thanks to Sera for the random and awesome Twitter quotes. Thanks to Esha for being a loyal reader. Love you all and you all know who you are. Lastly thanks to BHBK for being my OTM…One. True. Mess. You know they are.**

**Now, it begins. What a trip it shall be. You know the story, or do you?**

**-x-**

There shouldn't have been anything different about the room, it looked nearly the same as the rest. Country wide, world wide, it was all pretty much the same routine. Tiles, lockers, drains, showers, sinks, johns, you know, just the usual. The cracked squares on the floor would see the bootfalls of legends in their prime, over it, and just being born. The lockers would hold so briefly the trunks, tights, singlets, outfits, and props that made men into heroes and villains, larger than life performers who would walk to a simple ring and make it into something inspiring. On that canvass they would leave their sweat, their blood, the steps of their dance, and the memories of generations. It was in these times before he was to go out and submit his own part to the play, that he usually found a quiet corner (if at all possible in a room full of barbaric men) and a scrap of paper, and something to draw with. It calmed him, and made his lips curl softly and his eyes smile beneath the damp curls that hung over his forehead, as he watched the simple cartoons of his co-workers unfold. He was no artist worthy of a spot in the Louvre, but he had always loved to draw since he could remember, and this was his routine.

He glanced up from his canvas, a stack of brown paper towels that he'd pulled from one of the metal holders earlier. The tip of his felt pen whispered over the thin material, sketching lines and curves. He glanced up, watching his brother in law through his curls, and then just as quickly his dark eyes flicked back to the drawing. He exaggerated Jim's goatee, and his belly, laughing quietly to himself as he knew how Jim would react if he happened to run across the doodle later. He'd pretend to be pissed off about it, but he never really was. Jim was Jim, and he didn't care.

The lines and the gentle whisper of the pen were working their magic, helping Bret to drown out the bustle around him and set his mind to a state of calm that would allow him to concentrate on every detail of the match when he was in the ring. Right now was the time not to think too much, or that would lead to anxiety, and anxiety led to sloppy ring work. Sloppy was not an option.

His pen stopped, the drawing of Jim completed. He dropped that napkin, and let it flutter to the floor as he concentrated on the stack draped neatly onto his knee, considering who to cartoonify next. The whine of the door hinges and a sudden waft of cool air made him look up, and his next breath was left dead in his throat. Suddenly everything seemed very still, and very quiet, even though he knew it wasn't. He could still see the men moving around the locker room, but their footfalls and voices had seemed to become clouded through wads of cotton. Their movements seemed to have been slowed, as if life was a circle of vinyl on some celestial record player and some deity had changed the speed from normalcy to a stretched, distorted kind of crawl. His blond hair ruffled back from his forehead as he entered the room, and the long, golden waves hung over his shoulders and down his back.

He was beautiful and handsome all at the same time, the star football player, and the head cheerleader all rolled into one. He had seemed to have brought into the room with him some sort of spell, which left Bret only able to blink, forgetting to breathe, and noticing only when he began to feel dizzy. Any calm he had built up was left in pieces, like a glass slipped from a nervous hand and shattered into shards against the floor. An unsettling feeling had wormed into his stomach, and a strange kind of numbness swept over him. His heart thudded hard, each beat seeming like an explosion in his ears, each thump sending grey spots swimming before his eyes. He was up to his feet, and barely noticed that he was moving. The paper towels cascaded over the floor as they lost their place on his knee, and he headed for the door and the hallway where maybe there would be some air.

He ended up shoving himself past mingling bodies in the corridor, and out the nearest exit. The door clicked shut and pressing himself against the brick wall, Bret dragged in a deep breath that nearly choked him. His head was spinning, and his lean against the wall seemed more like a necessity than just a reaction. This was not typical of Bret Hart. Bret Hart was cool, and calm, nothing threw him for a loop, nothing got to him. Just _one glance_ and he had been terrified and captivated, hot and cold, all in the same moment. Suddenly there was a gleaming sword hanging above, ready to fall and lop off his very head, and yet he wanted to reach out and touch the tip of the blade.

Bret screwed his eyes closed, noticing the trickle of sweat down his jaw and neck. He could have attributed it to the hot, muggy air. It was June in California, it could have only been the searing rays of the sun beaming down onto his Northern accustomed skin. But it wasn't the sun. It was his calm suddenly turned to an inner chaos that had sent him into a ridiculous panic. Over who? Who was that man who was capable of shattering Bret Hart?

**-x-**

Shawn chuckled as he shoved his bag in next to Marty's.

"Ha. Well, guess I scared him off already." The blond flashed a grin to his dark haired counterpart, and flipped his hair. Marty shook his head, pulling out a pair of tights.

"You do know how to make a first impression." Marty joked, looking the tights over. "Are these yours, or mine?"

"Hell I don't know, I just shoved it all in."

There was a snort from behind Shawn, and he glanced over his shoulder but didn't find the culprit. He was nervous, actually, and he was bound to overcompensate for it by shooting off his mouth. That was just Shawn. When everything else failed, his lips could keep moving and that was not always a good thing. He shrugged, stripped from his jeans, and took the tights draped over Marty's arm. He began to shimmy into them, making it all a big show.

"Shawn…" Marty hissed, a pink blush warming up his cheeks.

"What?" Shawn pouted, feigning innocence.

The door to the locker room swung back open, the hinges crying once again to alert all of a returning presence. Shawn turned, and watched him carefully, as his lips twisted into a smirk. Shawn knew who this man was, he'd seen him on a t.v. screen many times but had never seen him in true form. His dark ringlets were tossed over his forehead and touching his shoulders, a handsome face with cheeks that seemed to be sporting a blush, and lips that would look much better doing something other than turning downwards. Bret was scowling at Shawn, the slow perusal of the bold blue eyes only making the pink petals twitch further with…disgust? Annoyance? Shawn was both amused and curious, and Marty was poking him.

"Let him be." Marty hissed, as he handed Shawn his boots.

"Oh but Marty, ya never let me have any fun." Shawn said, a little too loudly. He sulked over to a chair that just happened to be the same one Bret was sitting in moments ago, drawing. Said man was bending to pick up the paper towels he'd scattered across the floor when he'd bolted from the room moments ago. He dropped them all over again when he went to straighten up and his eyes met a crotch outlined in dark purple spandex. Shawn laughed—he couldn't help it.

"Mind if I sit here?" Shawn gestured grandly to the empty chair.

"No. It's mine." Bret snapped, scooping up the paper towels once more. This man was getting to him in a way that not many could, and there was no damn reason for him to be. It was something Bret was not very familiar with. He was a man who liked to have things under control, and right now, that was not the case.

"It's yours?" Shawn picked the chair up and searched it over thoroughly, turning it every which way. The locker room had went silent, all eyes on two of their comrades. "I don't see your name on it anywhere." Shawn sat the metal chair back down with a clang, and parked his ass in it, crossing his legs and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

Bret said nothing, he moved to the trash can and dumped the crumpled napkins into it, and then moved back to where Shawn was sitting snapping his gum and arrogantly bobbling his head. God damn it, Bret wanted to wipe that haughty smile right off that pretty face of his. The fact that Bret thought it to be pretty only served to raise his hackles more. With one motion he swept the chair out from beneath Shawn, sending the young man with an 'oof' to the floor. Bret strolled to the door, kicked it open, and tossed the chair out into the hall. He walked coolly back to Shawn, who was picking himself up, pouting as he rubbed at his offended cheeks.

"Why'd you-"

"You know what, _rookie_…I think you're in the wrong locker room. Ya look more like a diva or a valet to me, than a real wrestler." That got a few chuckles from the guys hanging around, leaning against their lockers. Something flashed beneath the cocky set blue eyes, something that might have been hurt. Bret decided he didn't care, why should he? Who was this kid to him—nothing. Absolutely nothing. "This is a _mans_ locker room _pretty boy._"

"Diva!" Shawn cried, his breath spilling into Bret's face, the tint of alcohol apparent on it. Bret wrinkled his nose. _No respect for the business._ He thought to himself, disliking this blond brat more than he already did. He bumped Shawn towards the door, their faces too close together for Bret's comfort, and those eyes bore into him _much_ too deeply. His breath was stuck in his throat again, and he only barely managed to untangle his words before speaking them.

"Diva, that's what I said. Ya hard of hearing?"

Shawn snapped his gum, and twirled a strand of Bret's hair. With a growl, Bret slapped his hand away.

"I'm not hard of anything, but I think somebody else is." Shawn laughed, watching the ire flicker in the dark orbs of the man who was about to toss him out on his ear. There were no more words—Bret couldn't have came up with any if they'd been written in front of his nose. That comment completely bowled him over, and the only thing he could do was finish his excommunication of the little punk. Shawn was shoved out into the hallway, and toppled over the tossed chair which was laid sadly collapsed on the floor. He watched from his newly seated position as the locker room door swung shut, closing out the image of that handsome, angry man, who had now gained Shawn's full attention and fascination. Over Bret's shoulder peeked Marty, his eyebrows tilted in worry over his best friend.

Shawn picked himself up, and prodded at the metal chair with his toe.

"Hmph. Call me a damn diva." He scoffed, fixing his hair.

Marty appeared through the door, his arms full of their things.

"Shawn…Jesus Christ." He sighed. "I…I get the _strangest_ feeling that we're not wanted in there." With a little shake of his head, and a smirk that he couldn't help, he handed Shawn his bag. The guy was a complete trip, and maybe more trouble than he was worth, but Marty couldn't help but love the fucking fool. "Let's go find a closet or something, we've gotta finish changing. You and I have a debut to make."

Shawn laughed.

"I already made mine, kid." He draped his arm over Marty's shoulders. "Lead the way, Jannetty!"

Marty smiled, and let Shawn steer him to the nearest closet. Shawn might give him the go ahead, but Marty never really 'led' them anywhere. It was always Shawn who made the grand entrance, who was noticed by everyone first, and Marty was okay with that. The two of them ducked into a closet, and Marty fought with a mop as he tugged on his tights. Shawn threatened to spray him with a cleaner, and in the end only succeeded in spraying himself in the face. Marty found a rag on one of the shelves, and gently cleaned the mist from Shawn's face.

"Don't go screwing up that face, it's too pretty." Marty half-joked, brushing his thumb over Shawn's lips. Shawn winked at him, and stepped out of the closet.

"Well geeze Jan, one of us has to be good lookin', or this would never work." Shawn flipped his hair girlishly, playing up the part, and he headed towards their entrance. Marty followed him, and The Rockers ran down the ramp to their music to greet their destinies.

-x-


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: This story kind of freaks me out. I hope I'm doing okay. Last ch was more 'bret' this ch is more 'shawn' because I was skimming back through Heartbreak and Triumph...haven't read it for years. Trying to get events lined up in my head, so, yeah. Hope this is working out. Thanks to all for the reads, reviews, alerts, and faves. I really appreciate it. It helps when you guys let me know how it's going. *hugs*I hope I don't f- things up. Feel free to tell me if I do.  
**_

After the debut—the one with Bret in the locker room, things became much more quieted. Shawn hadn't been quite himself that night. He'd been nervous as hell about the Rockers taking that big leap, and he'd done the only thing he knew how that allowed him to escape situations he didn't know how to deal with. He got a buzz on, and went with it. It was probably not the best idea but going at it as himself was too much to handle most times. Even though Marty was there, always sticking by him, it was still tough to be real, because Shawn didn't know what that was. As for Bret, the man who had tossed him out of the locker room on day one went back to being reserved. He stuck with his group, or sat off to himself, sketching before a match. There were few words traded between the two of them for quite some time. Shawn had often wondered about the guy, about that first meeting. Shawn had only walked through the door and Bret had bolted, seeming to be frightened, only to come back moments later like he owned the whole damn world. Shawn had asked Marty about it, smirking a little, suggesting that maybe he'd scared Bret. Marty just laughed.

Still, Shawn couldn't help but watch Bret in some of those quiet times. He would find his eyes trained on the hand as it drew lines onto paper, on the dark curls that hung over Bret's face, on the earth-tone eyes that would dart up and catch him in the act—and the way his cheeks would tint pink and he'd shift uncomfortably having noticed Shawn's eyes on him. Marty teased Shawn about it from time to time, but never in front of anyone else. He'd bat his eyelashes and simper, and mock Shawn playfully as if he was a school girl displaying her first crush on that guy in the school who everyone wanted. He didn't admit it to Marty, but the evaluation of his best friend was a correct one. Bret was a handsome man, and when Shawn watched him in the ring he couldn't help but be amazed. It was obvious that Bret prided himself in his work, which was nearly flawless. Shawn could only hope not to press Bret's buttons too far, although he had done a pretty good job of it already, in hopes that they could work together one day. It seemed like a long shot, because Bret didn't seem to really care for Shawn much—which was the general consensus in the back about both Shawn and Marty. Apparently, their reluctance to mingle much with anyone else, had been mistranslated into snobbery.

Eventually, Shawn drew up enough alcohol and a little bit of courage to try to engage Bret in a conversation. It didn't get very far, Bret gave him cut replies, and even though the dark haired man appeared nonchalant during the conversation, there was something about him that made Shawn feel Bret was nervous underneath it all. But why?

Bret had decided that avoiding Shawn would be the best road to take. Of course they now worked for the same company, shared locker rooms, but Shawn was lower on the card so it was unlikely they'd have to confront each other in the ring anytime soon. Even if that should arise, well Bret could handle that. After all, business was business and whatever went on outside of those ropes shouldn't dictate what went on inside of them. If avoidance wouldn't work, then it's just as cold cousin 'ignore' would be the next step. That was somewhat harder though, because he _wanted_ to talk to Shawn. He wanted to know him, despite the original impression. He'd immediately thought Shawn disrespectful for various reasons, his demeanor towards Bret, and the strong stink of alcohol on his breath. However, most of that was just a defense mechanism in Bret's head. If he could pit something against Shawn, if he could make Shawn seem less desirable, then maybe that would help. Bret himself would have never come to work buzzed or drunk, he just couldn't fathom that. Yet he couldn't just label Shawn based on that one incident, could he? There were plenty of amazing men in the business who had pulled a Shawn and showed up to cut a promo out of their mind, or to wrestle with a handful of pills dulling the pain. It was unfortunately the nature of the beast. His own cousin Roddy was known for his less than sober antics. He could drink anyone under the table, and cut a promo better than anyone else, all while being loaded. Of course, Roddy was batshit crazy anyway so it was sometimes hard to tell if he was sober or wasn't, there really wasn't a lot of difference most times. Bret would never question Roddy's respect for the business—there was no way. He admired the guy and knew without doubt he was good at what he did, to hell with his recreational wildness.

So, Bret had to drop 'ignore' because logically it didn't make sense, and really, he didn't want to ignore Shawn. That was what frightened him because the things he wanted with Shawn, the places his mind went when he thought about Shawn, should not exist. He didn't even _know_ the guy, and even still that wasn't the biggest problem—Shawn was a man. It was just that simple, and the things that came into Bret's mind late at night, as he'd lay in some cold bed alone, would be blond things with pretty blue eyes and warm bodies, all of them named Shawn, and all of them forbidden. Just thinking of Shawn laying next to him in bed made Bret feel guilty enough without the fantasies having to go any further, but there were occasions when they did and in his mind Bret would yell at them to shut up, to go away. He'd try to lock phantom Shawn behind some mental door, kept safe by an alarm system, guarded by snarling dogs, so he couldn't ever come out again. But eventually, the lock would be picked by that imaginary Shawn, the code to the alarm system would be stolen as his pink lips smirked, and he'd calm the baying canines with treats rested in the palms of his soft-looking hands. Then there the demon was, free to torment Bret's mind again.

It wasn't long before Bret was seeing the end of The Rockers. Davey had said that the two young punks wrecked a bar. Davey had been there along with a few of his friends, the Samoan group, Greg Valentine, and some other guys. Shawn and Marty were staying off to themselves as usual, having gotten the stare-down from many of their coworkers when they'd walked into the dark, cavernous place. Jimmy Jack Funk was wasted, and he'd gone to the bar to confront the two of them. After a slurred challenge, he'd grabbed a glass and bit into it, chewing off a piece. According to Davey, as he relayed the story in much grandeur to Bret later, Shawn had retaliated by snatching a glass and busting it over his own forehead, and then all hell had broken loose. Apparently, The Rockers had wrecked the bar. The same story had been yelled all over catering the next day by Funk, who couldn't have possibly remembered any correct version of the events, in the state he'd been in.

x

"We should try to socialize, I mean, the guys in the back already think we're just a couple of snobs. We haven't…well especially _I_ haven't made the greatest impression." Shawn took Marty's hand and led him towards the bar, where they'd heard a lot of their co-workers liked to frequent when in this particular area. "And no crazy stuff tonight, Marty."

"Oh but Shawn, ya never let me have any fun." Marty mocked playfully, smiling and squeezing the blonds hand before dropping it.

"You can't have fun, Jan. Especially if _I _can't." Shawn teased, brushing his fingers through his hair. He had to admit he was a little nervous, but this had to be done. He and Marty couldn't hang around as outsiders forever, that would do nothing to further their career.

The two of them walked into the bar, and it was so dark and eerie. It seemed more like a cave than any bar the two of them were used to. They could pick out various familiar faces in the dimness. The Samoan guys were all together in a group, at a table back in the corner. Davey Boy, Greg Valentine, and Jimmy Jack Funk were hovering around a pool table, the click of the balls seeming too loud somehow. The men stopped their game, pool cues poised. Valentine took the square of blue chalk and scraped it against the black tip. All eyes who knew Shawn and Marty watched them with anything other than friendliness. If they had been nervous before, they were terrified after that warm welcome. As if they shared some sort of mind link, they both veered away at the same time, and headed for the bar and away from the other guys. They took a couple of open stools and gave each other looks.

"I thought we were going to be social." Marty said quietly.

"Shut up…we…we were social enough." Shawn patted Marty's thigh, and ordered them drinks.

The evening seemed to drag on, Shawn and Marty kept contemplating their approach, but never actually got around to it. Marty was racking up a nice stash of empty beer bottles, and he kept peeling away the labels and playing with them, rolling them into little balls and flicking them at Shawn.

Shawn was giggling, and picking the little weapons out of hair, and flinging them back at Marty. Usually by now things would have gotten much more rambunctious, a beer label war was so very tame, but it was helping them both to feel a little better. Their silly game was interrupted by a man stumbling up to the bar beside Shawn. Funk grabbed an empty glass from the bar, and bit into it. Shawn could only watch shocked as the wasted guy crunched the shards of glass, a dribble of blood seeping from the corner of his lips. Marty had turned back to his bottles and was pulling off another label.

"Oooh c'mon ya purty boys I heard yas'pose ta be some kinda biiiiig partiers." He slurred. "Well come on n'give us s-somethin' big shots."

"Uh, well…not tonight Jimmy. We're not here to cause any trouble." Shawn glanced over to Marty, wishing he'd say something, but he was just fiddling with those lables.

"Chicken shit." Funk bit the glass again, and grinned at the two of them, his teeth coated with blood.

"Jesus." Shawn shook his head. "Marty, come on maybe we oughta go." Shawn slid off of his stool and grabbed Marty's hand.

"Aaaw well lookit that, the two sweet lil fairieses is holdin' hands. Some big badasses you two are."

Shawn dropped Marty's hand as if it had burned him.

"Come on tough guys…aren't ya s'pose to be some big deal? S'that what you think?" Funk came closer, advancing on Shawn until Shawn backed into Marty, stepping on his toes. Funk jabbed his finger into Shawn's chest.

"Hey!" Shawn swatted at the offending finger. "Hey, I'm warnin' you, I told you…look we're not here for trouble, right Marty?"

"Yeah…we just-" Marty piped up, peeking over Shawn's shoulder, but he was interrupted by Funk's shouting. Some of the other wrestlers and bar patrons had began to gather around in a loose circle, intent on watching something big go down.

"Fuck you!" The drunk spat, spraying Shawn with a disgusting mixture of spit, blood, and bits of glass. "Fuck you two cock suckin', ass…fuckin', faggots!" Funk wobbled around laughing, his chin dripping with the same stuff splattered over Shawn's face.

"Shawn…" Marty whispered, his words close to Shawn's ear as he peeked once again over the blonds shoulder. "Don't." He knew the look on Shawn's face, it was that look that came over him when he'd finally been pushed too far. With a growl, Shawn grabbed himself an empty glass from the bar, smashed it into his forehead, and turned on his heel and stormed out.

He waited at the curb for Marty so they could walk back to their hotel together. His shirt was stained crimson from wiping the mess away from his face, and dabbing at the cuts on his forehead. The evening had since turned to night, the lamps in the street casting a yellowy glow over everything as bugs flitted and swam in the entrancing warmth of the beams. Shawn sighed, and looked at his watch. A drop of blood splatted onto the face, and he smeared it away. Marty was obviously not coming. Shawn walked across the parking lot and back to the bar, hoping he wouldn't see Marty in the middle of some big brawl. He peeked in, and instead saw Marty mingling. Well, at least he was alright. Satisfied that his partner wasn't being torn to shreds, Shawn decided to head back to the hotel. The night hadn't gone so well as they'd planned, and he needed something stronger than alcohol to take his mind off of it.

A few days later, Shawn got a call from Marty informing him that The Rockers had been fired from their dream. Shawn had been so high on it all, and now…the crash was in progress, and when he hit bottom, he was going to hit hard.

x

Things cooled off after Shawn and Marty had gone. The tension the two of them had seemed to bring into the back, and cover over everyone like a massive blanket, lifted. Bret could breathe a sigh of relief, telling himself that the blond haired vixen was now out of his life for good. He and Marty would probably go back to the territories, and bye-bye to the part of Bret that Shawn stirred up just by being present. It was a part of himself that he would rather leave deeply buried, and now that Shawn was gone, the truth could stay in that grave.

x

"This…is it?" Shawn asked in a small voice. He and Marty stood in Shawn's new apartment in Birmingham, Alabama. Marty had done business, and gotten them a new gig. It wasn't the original plan they'd had but the territory they had a shot in had moved from Pensacola, Florida, to up here. The thought that the two of them had blown their big chance over something as small as a busted glass sank Shawn into a deep funk. That's all that had really gone on that night at the bar, before Shawn had left. Marty had gotten with Funk's girl later, but there were no truth in any of the far-fetched allegations that had seemed to make their way to every ear. Shawn and Marty had seemed to do everything to that bar short from burning it to the ground, apparently. One broken glass, and now the world was shattered.

The crowds were tiny, there was nothing to do, and Shawn found himself in his free time holing up in his apartment, curled up on his mattress on the floor, sobbing onto the dirty sheets as he looked around at the liter of beer bottles, and reached for his stash of pills only to find he'd already depleted it. Sometimes he went up to Marty's place and they got trashed together, but there wasn't much fun in it as Shawn had found it to be earlier on. The nights usually ended with him weeping on Marty, the dark haired man stroking his hair, and leaving soft kisses to the tear streaked cheeks.

Having ruined their big chance wasn't the only thing tormenting Shawn. Two dark haired men tormented his thoughts when they were coherent enough in his head. One was Marty, whom Shawn knew he was falling in love with. They'd been close friends for some time, the closest, and he knew that Marty cared deeply for him but Marty couldn't possibly love him, not in that way. Shyly, Marty had said those words a couple of times, but they'd been said in a less than sober state and usually after their ventures in experimental sex, so Shawn was hesitant to really take the confessions to heart. Then, there was Bret. Shawn just couldn't stop thinking about him. It was a mystery of mysteries why, because they hadn't been friends. They'd barely even been social to each other, but among the stolen glances and scant conversations, something strange had happened. Bret had lodged himself into Shawn's mind like some sort of thorn and Shawn couldn't reach deep enough to pluck the point away.

There were times when he was so fucked up, sitting on that mattress, rocking back and forth with his dirty blond hair handing in his face, and he'd think he saw Bret. His barely-there eyes would glance into some dark corner and he'd think he saw Bret there, lacing his boots, pushing his damp hair off of his forehead, studying Shawn intently with pen and paper as if he was getting ready to do an intense artistic study on his subject matter. It was horrible, all of it was. There was barely anyone in his life he could talk to about these things that ate up his mind, especially not his mother who attempted to cheer him up via phone calls and a few visits. Shawn couldn't breathe a word to her however, about his reckless lifestyle, about his increasing depression, or about his unconventional love life…or whatever it was you could call it. 'Love' might not have been the correct word for it.

Desperation set in one night, as the darkness edged in too close to Shawn. He crawled to the door and managed to pull himself up to his feet, watching through the drapes of his hair as tears dripped onto his toes. He found himself at Marty's door, not sure how he'd made it there or remembered the number. He stared at the door through his tears, contemplating turning away, going back to his cave, and finding something to do himself in with. Those sort of considerations were weighing heavier and heavier upon him and he hated to think that his life—only a short while ago filled with the promise of a bright future in a business he had fallen in love with—had come down to a void so deep and miserable that he just wanted to hit the bottom of it, splatter to pieces, and be done with it all.

A small sob escaped his lips as he knocked at Marty's door. He half hoped that Marty wouldn't answer, but more than anything, right now he needed Marty to be there the way a man needs air to breathe. It was truly a matter of life, or death.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Thanks for reading, reviewing, on to the next.**_

Marty appeared in the doorway, his eyes spidery-red from the bottle he held onto. Shawn's face twisted up into a pitiful display of pain, and he fell forward onto Marty, his tears coming freely onto the other man's shoulder. After a moment, Marty's arms wrapped loosely around Shawn's quaking, sobbing body, and he pulled the blond inside.

"I'm done!" Shawn wept. Marty let go of him and took a step back. His finger hooked under Shawn's chin and he shoved it up, making their eyes connect—Marty's aching and Shawn's swimming beneath twin pools of tears.

"What do you mean 'I'm done'?" Marty asked, thumbing away some of the wet streaks over Shawn's cheeks. Shawn whimpered, his shoulders slumped and still trembling with his sobs.

"All of it. I…Marty…" Shawn grabbed the bottle from Marty's hand and drank what was left of it. He dropped his gaze to his hands where the brown glass glistened as he slowly turned it, wondering how it would feel if he busted it, and raked the jagged spikes across his wrists. "I've fucked up so much. I don't know where I'm supposed to go from here, what I'm supposed to do…I can't take this. I can't do it."

Marty slid the bottle from Shawn's hands.

"Can't take what, Shawn?"

Shawn refused to meet Marty's gaze, his lips quivered as the tears rolled over his skin. After a long pause, he breathed out one word.

"Life." He sniffed, and wrapped his arms around himself, wishing Marty wouldn't have pushed him away. He felt like he needed someone else's arms coiled around him right now, someone else's strength to hold him up, because his own strength was failing. There was a long, awkward moment of silence. Shawn wished for Marty to say something—anything—to give him some sort of encouragement, answer, or just a simple 'I love you' but Marty was never really a deep thinker, never really too good with his words, and Shawn didn't know why he expected anything to be different in this moment. The truth was, he needed it, and Marty was the only person he had. He was so alone. Sobs erupted from him again, and the only thing his mind could scream at him was that it needed to escape.

"Shawn…come on. You don't mean that." Marty said, but his words sounded unsure. He had seen Shawn at some low points, but never anything like this and he had no idea what to do. He moved over to an old battered couch that doubled as his bed, and patted one of the dirty cushions. "Come sit down."

Shawn moved to the couch and sat as close to Marty as he could, without actually sitting in his lap. The contact of their legs against one another did a little to ease his tears—but they didn't stop. Marty took his hand, and linked their fingers together, and Shawn closed his eyes, weakly willing himself to feel less miserable.

"Man, I don't get why you're so…what's wrong with you, Shawn? Listen, if this is about us getting canned and everything—it's no big deal. We'll be on top before long again. We're good, hell, great even."

"Because Marty, do you fucking see where we are now? Look around us. We're in Birmingham fucking Alabama. There's nothing to do here, we wrestle in front of oh, maybe twenty five people if we're lucky, how good are we, Marty? We're _nothing._ I—I'm _nothing._ You're my only friend Marty, and there are things that even we can't talk about because…I just…can't ever seem to get past the surface with you." Shawn finished, looking down at his hands. "Don't you care? Wouldn't you care if you walked into my apartment tomorrow, and found my head splattered all over the wall? I wish I had a god damn gun Marty, I'd fucking do it. I'd fucking do it…" Shawn's words twisted and dissolved into sobs again.

"Shawn—stop. Come on, you're acting ridiculous."

"I am not!" Shawn jumped up from the couch, shouting, his tears still streaming. "You think this is a fucking joke Jannetty? Huh? Do you?" Shawn kicked a lamp that was on top of a box that Marty was using as a little table next to the couch. The light went flying into the wall, the shade cocking, before it hit the floor. He threw the box, launching it at Marty who ducked and tumbled to the carpet.

"Jesus Christ!" Marty yelled. "Shawn!"

Shawn paced around the small space a little, kicking some empty bottles around with his boot. The same thought as earlier repeated through his head, some dark, inner voice egging him on to grow a set and do it. Just do it, just end it-the pain probably wouldn't last too long, before it was all over with. Shawn's footsteps stilled when Marty moved in behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. Shawn waited, but the other man was silent. Maybe he didn't know what to say, or maybe he was afraid of saying the wrong thing, and launching Shawn into another tantrum. Shawn's shoulders slumped beneath the palm and he let out a long sigh.

"Just…just get me through this night…and maybe I'll be okay tomorrow." Shawn turned to face Marty. That maybe seemed hopeless, and 'okay'? What was okay? Then there was the 'tomorrow'…at this point, Shawn really didn't want that tomorrow to come. Things would be better if he closed his eyes tonight, and never opened them up again. He didn't know if he could bear to wake up to one more day of this pain and emptiness that ate at him.

"I'm no good at talking, Shawn. What do you want from me?" Marty pressed his forehead to Shawn's, closing his eyes. He wasn't expecting Shawn's hand to rest against his cheek, or Shawn's lips to capture his, but he didn't pull away or protest. He and Shawn had shared kisses before, after all. In the back of his mind Marty could remember through a kind of haze that he and Shawn had shared more than kisses. They'd fooled around before, but only when they were both _really_ wasted, and Marty was sure they'd never actually taken it 'all the way'. Thinking about 'going there' made Marty's heart pound hard with both curiosity and nervousness, as Shawn's tongue snaked into his mouth, and his own pink muscle slid wetly against it. Shawn moaned against Marty's lips, the sound vibrating through Marty's mouth, before Shawn pulled away and left them both panting for air. The space between them wasn't much though, because Shawn needed Marty to be close.

"You don't have to talk." Shawn said lowly, his voice a near whisper, as his chest rose and fell with his breathing. "Just don't leave me tonight. Just…hold me…just keep me close and love me. Just for tonight, please? Can you do that?" Shawn remembered those times when they'd both been lost to their growing addictions, and Marty had fooled around with him, even slurring 'I love you, Shawn' although the more those words blurred in Shawn's mind, the more he knew they couldn't really be true. Just the same, those moments and words were the closest things he had to being loved, and at this point, he would take that over being completely alone. Shawn Michaels, a grain of sand adrift in an ocean, with only a false love to save him—maybe.

Shy hands slid slowly up under Shawn's shirt, hesitantly touching the warm skin. Shawn's heart thumped beneath his palm, and somehow, the very beat of it seemed desperate and lonely. _Shawn needs this._ Marty nodded slowly, his cheeks warming to a rosy tint.

"I can do that." Marty finally answered, his voice as quiet as Shawn's.

xxx

"_You—you filthy little bitch. You no good, disgusting little fuck!" _

_Bret's eyes grew wide and terrified as his father stood at the top of the stairs and brandished the thin magazine in his hand. It was a curiosity that Bret had kept hidden under his mattress, thinking there it would be safe and seen only by his eyes. The pages were beginning to become worn because he looked at it more often, sometimes forsaking his homework and spending hours taking in the details on each page until the staring made his eyes ache. He was still too young for the pictures to cause the kind of ache they were meant for, but later in life, those studied images would come back to him, free-floating in his mind, no pages needed, and show him just what they were meant for. _

_Fear gripped him and stopped his breath. His father was known for his short fuse and heavy hand anyway, but this…this was really, really bad. The fact that his father confronted him at the top of the stairs was alone enough to make Bret fear the worst beating his short life had ever known. Dad's punishment was usually saved for a more private part of the house. It was true that the basement—aptly tagged 'The Dungeon' by various wannabe wrestlers-was for training, but it was also meant for torment. When one of the Hart boys was led to that place, he could never be sure if his father was leading him as Teacher, or Punisher, and many times the line was so fine that it may as well have not existed at all._

_The worst case scenario was unfolding now, as Bret's heart hammered at his chest, and he wished then that he'd left the magazine in the alley where he had one day happened upon it on his walk home from school. He remembered picking it up, the cover damp and the first two pages stuck together. The first image he saw made his cheeks pink up with warmth. He knew immediately that it was wrong, that it was forbidden, even though he really didn't know what exactly it was. Curiosity made him flip through the pages though, and a strange sense of discovery made him slide the magazine between his school books, and take it home. When he moved his eyes over those men in the photos, there was something he could identify with, though he didn't understand how or why. _

_He closed his eyes, trying to keep his cry silent as his father's fist crashed into the side of his head. Colors exploded and danced on the backs of his eyelids, and pain blossomed. His teeth had sank into his lower lip on impact, drawing the metallic taste of blood into his mouth. He stayed as still as he could, telling himself that it didn't hurt that bad, just as he had all the other times. He dare not open his eyes, to see the look of rage twisting his father's face. _

_The pain came again, and again, and again. The toughened, skilled fists, rained down upon him mercilessly. Thunder came in the bellowed curses and horrible names that had now replaced 'Bret' and it was the cruel, hateful words, rather than the physical pain that brought the tears. He'd held up admirably, even when he'd fallen down under the blows, and his father kicked him in the ribs with his heavy boots. Even then, Bret hadn't cried. Maybe the wind was knocked out of him too quickly to issue a sob, but in any case, he hadn't cried then. But now he couldn't seem to stop, and all he really wanted was for his father's screaming to give way to silence. He'd take the beating three times over if his father would just do it silently._

_Instead he was yanked to his feet, the huge hands digging into his shoulders, and making his legs wobble. His stomach felt like water, and he was afraid that he would be further shamed by feeling his jeans grow suddenly wet and warm with urine, or seeing his lunch re-birthed onto his father's feet. His father yanked him by his shoulders, spun him off his feet and around so he was facing the stairs. They now seemed like the edge of a cliff, a cliff that should the ground crumble beneath his feet, would lead him to a long, long fall, which would end only in flaming damnation. At least then, it would be over, Bret thought, as tears soaked his face. His father held him there, the terrible, horrible, words invading Bret's head, crawling and worming in through his ears and filling him until he was sure he would explode and nothing would be left of him but humanoid goo, and his father's despising words, dripping down the flight of stairs. _

_He glanced out the corner of his eye, down the hallway, he sniffled. His flock of siblings both younger and older peeked timidly from their various doorways. Some wore expressions of fear, while others were twisted with as much hate and disgust as his father's was. He tore his eyes away from them, knowing that none of them would interfere. In the Hart family, you took your punishment and swallowed it like an impossible horse pill. There was no one to crush it up and make it easier to cough down, no one to make it taste any better than what it was. Even Helen kept silent when these things went on—though mostly they were kept from her sight—hence the use of The Dungeon. Her poor, fearful, tears were the only words she spoke, as she watched her children bruise and bleed. Bret's father shook him again, digging his fingers in harder, until Bret yelped pitifully. He was sure his father was just going to tear both of his shoulders from their sockets, and then maybe he'd start beating him with his amputated arms. The visual popped horribly into his head, nearly making him sick, but he managed to hold onto what was in his belly. _

_He kept Bret suspended there, on the brink of falling, for a few more terrible moments, and then drew him back a step or two. The clawing hands left Bret's shoulders which tingled with pain and numbness. He was afraid to move, but after a moment he rolled his shoulders a little. His heartbeat kept on hammering out so quickly it seemed like it would never slow down again. Another silent moment passed, and Bret turned on his heel, at the worst moment of them all. His father's foot flew into his stomach, instead of the intended target of Bret's back. None the less, the boot accomplished its job. Bret plummeted backwards, crash-landing about half way down the stairs onto the back of his neck, and then he somersaulted down the rest, various parts of his body banging against the unforgiving stairs and the railing._

_For moments he just laid there at the bottom, crumpled up into an awkward position, unable to breathe. The pain in his stomach made him wish he was dead, and he was afraid that before morning came, he might be. He slowly got to his knees, and just stayed there shaking, unable to make himself be still. Through his tear filled eyes he looked down at his jeans, noting that now they really were wet, and his father must have been right about all those words he called him. He wanted to crawl away into a hole and never come out again. It had never been this bad, and he was so ashamed—for crying like a baby, for wetting himself, for looking at those pictures, for being Bret. _

_His father's footsteps trod slowly down the stairs, each one loud, hard, deliberate, growing steadily closer. Thump. Thump. Thump. Bret couldn't take it. The nearing stomps coupled with the searing pain in his stomach, and the ache pounding up his neck and into his head, it was just too much to bear. He threw up, coughing and choking up the lunch his mother had packed for him that day in a brown paper bag. He felt dizzy, weak, and the puddle of slime on the floor between his knees was bloody. His body heaved again, the force and the acid making his throat seem to tear apart, but nothing else came up. _

_The footsteps stopped because they'd reached the bottom. Bret was drawn up to his feet again, this time slapped with an open palm, his head cocked to the side._

"_Get out." His father demanded, coldly. Bret moaned and leaned himself against the wall, shaking his head to clear away the gray that was inching in and threatening to take him out. _

"_Stu!" Helen shrieked, the name more a sob than a word._

"_This is between me and the boy—me and the little _fag _Helen." Stu barked, shoving Bret forward. "Did you hear me? I said get the fuck out of my house!"_

_Bret forced his feet to move—he was too afraid to stay. They took him forwards a few steps, and then he found himself falling into his mother's arms and sobbing harder than before. Her fingers traced through his hair. He could feel them trembling together._

"_Stu, he's only twelve." Helen spoke quietly, and gently rubbed at Bret's aching neck._

"_I don't care. I said I want him out—he's not staying in this house tonight, not after the filth he's brought into it." He pulled Bret away from his mother, and snarled down at him. "I don't tolerate _filth_ in my house."_

_Bret couldn't bear to look at his father—didn't dare to. The filth he was talking about wasn't that magazine, but was Bret himself. Helen made no more soft words of protest. His father had spoken the decree of banishment, and so Bret made his way from the house the best he could. He had no other choice. He made it a considerable way away from the house. He didn't know where he was going, but right then, he just didn't want to be near the massive brick mansion. When he collapsed again the house was considerably smaller, viewed over the distance of land that now separated him from it. He was at the edge of the sprawling property, propped up against a rotting tree. Maybe once it got dark, if he was still awake and could bring himself to move, maybe he'd head back towards the house and sleep on the porch, but maybe not. _

_At that moment the thought of getting too close to the house terrified him. He was filth, after all, and he didn't belong there. Even though he knew his father couldn't rightly banish him forever, he knew then, that he would always be banished in some sense of the word. If he kept looking at those pictures, if he kept being curious about them, he might be banished forever—not just from his home but from his entire family. Maybe even from Canada, maybe even from the whole world. Maybe he was too dirty and disgusting to be anywhere. He hung his head, missing his mother's touch to the back of his neck, missing her arms around him. If he kept looking at those pictures, if he touched another boy the way those men touched each other, if he let them touch him, she might be the only person left in the world who would love him. One way or another, he was going to be banished for good—because if he made himself a promise to never look at those pictures again, to never be curious about them, to never find out about them, then part of him would be put into exile—not away from his home or his family, but away from himself. He didn't understand how, or why, but he knew it to be true, and he knew it to be the only option available._

_With a shaky sigh, Bret wiped his face and nose, and looked back up towards the looming house. He squinted a bit, making out a small form crossing over the land. It came closer and closer into view, and when he realized who it was, his frowning lips couldn't help but twitch up into a small smile. However when the tiny, running child, became even nearer, the smile faded back to its former state. The boy was crying._

"_Bwet!" The squeaky little voice shrieked. He still couldn't say his 'r' right. The boy came to a stop next to his brother and knelt down, panting from his sprint over the land. His huge, bright blue eyes were swimming with tears that streamed over his cheeks and clear trails of snot glistened over his quivering lips. Bret reached towards the small boy, wincing at the bolts of pain that pecked at various parts of his body like a prying bird-beak. He pulled the boy closer and lifted his t-shirt and cleaned the boys face. Little fingers gently touched the flesh that Bret had bared when he lifted his shirt—he looked down at the hand that traveled delicately over the angry bruises._

_The boys lips began to quiver again, and he burst into a new shower of tears._

"_Come on Owen, don't cry. I'm alright…I promise."Bret said, trailing his fingers through the soft blond hair. _

"_Bwet-" Owen sniffled, his fingers now touching the swollen, bloodied lip. "I'm sowwy I colored ah over your pitchers an' got you in twouble!" _

"_Sshhh…" Owen scooted into Bret's lap, not caring that is was still damp, and laid his head against the older boys chest. "It's not your fault, O." Bret said lowly, stroking the boys hair the way his mother hand stroked his. "You didn't do anything wrong."_

_They stayed like that as the sun sank against the sky, and was replaced by the moon. Both of them had stopped crying, comforted by each others presence. Stars began to wink out and speckled the sky, and the big Hart house went to bed, tucked under a shadowy cover. There was only one light left glowing at the back of the house, upstairs, and Bret knew it to be his mother and father's room. He wondered if they were up there talking about him, if his mother was crying, if his father was telling her how dirty her son was._

"_Bwet?" Owen spoke up quietly._

"_What?"_

"_Know what Bwet?"_

"_What, Big O?"_

_Owen tilted his face up at Bret, and grinned big—his face seemed brighter than the moon._

"_I think you're the best most awesomest bwother evah! You teached me how to tie my shoes." He added, as if that was indeed the pinnacle of awesome. "But sometimes I still forget ta do it."_

_Bret couldn't help but smile, and then to laugh, even though it hurt his stomach._

"_That's alright Owen. If you forget, I'll tie them for you." _

_Owen smiled up at him again, and hugged him around his aching neck._

"_The best evah!"Owen went quiet again, briefly, and then he giggled. "Bwet, guess what?"_

"_What, Big O?"_

"_Know what the moon looks like?"_

"_What does it look like?"_

"_It looks like a big piece a'cheese…an' I'm gonna eat it 'cos I'm a mouse!"_

"_You're not a mouse." Bret gave Owen's side a tickle and he shrieked._

"_Yes I am! I gots big ears and I squeak!" Owen cupped his hands over his ears, representing mouse ears, apparently. "Squeak-squeak-squeak!"_

The memory trailed off in Bret's sleeping mind. The blankets were successfully stolen from his bed partner and wrapped around him in impossible ways. He didn't realize he'd been thrashing through most of the dream, even crying through some of it. He rolled over again, still asleep but somehow aware that the dream was over—that the memory was just a memory.

But then, it started up again.

"_You—you filthy little bitch. You no good, disgusting little fuck!" _

Bret jerked awake with a cry. He sat up in bed, breathing hard as his heart pounded away.

"Are you okay?" A female voice, warily asked. He squinted into the shadows and saw her prop herself up on her elbows. Her blond hair was tangled around her face and she looked annoyed that she'd been awoken by his nightmare.

"Let's just go, Amber. We should go." Another female voice chimed in, and Bret glanced towards the door. There stood the second woman, her smooth, dark skin, illuminated and seeming to glow in the slant of moonlight that crept in through the pulled drapes. Flashes from earlier that night re-surfaced.

_Signing a couple of autographs, taking them to his room, they were giggling. _

_He'd had too much to drink, he was aroused and lonely. _

_They spilled into his room, onto his bed, both of the ladies bickering over him before he smirked and told them: _

"_There's enough of me for both of you." _

The rest was a blur. He turned once more towards the blond who was in his bed, but just as quickly he scrambled off of the mattress, tugging the binding sheets away from his legs. She'd been replaced by that kid—that fucking kid that had come and gone and left Bret's head spinning. She wasn't some unnamed blond chick, she was Shawn Michaels, pouting at Bret with a pretty face that none other could ever live up to.

"Come on Amber, we need to get out of here girl!" The one by the door was becoming more impatient, and her words became barked, shouted, the voice of a man with heavy fists.

_Get out. This is between me and the boy—between me and the little _fag_ Helen. Did you hear me? I said get the fuck OUT…_

Maybe it was just the alcohol souring in his stomach, but Bret felt like he was kicked in the gut all over again. He doubled over for a moment, and then sprinted to the bathroom, leaving Shawn and his father and those two useless women behind. He clutched the porcelain bowl and threw up hard, getting some of his hair into the water and slicked up with the acidic chunks. He sank away from the toilet, and leaned back against the glass shower doors, trying to shake off his father's words. All of them. But they'd been lodged too deeply, and as always, he couldn't get them to let go. Bret closed his eyes, and on the backs of his lids that face danced, captivating blue eyes in a pretty face, pouty lips, golden hair; Shawn's face. Bret stood to his feet, and crashed his fist through the mirror over the sink, shattering it. The shards clattered into the basin below, onto the tiled floor, a few made wet splashes into the vomit-filled toilet bowl, some stuck into Bret's shaking hand. A few of the larger pieces still hung in the frame, showing part of Bret's face, distorted and hurt and angry: broken pieces of a reflection that wasn't completely his.

xxx


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for reading/reviewing.**

**A/N: Shawn stuff is largely inspired by Heartbreak and Triumph. Some of the Bret and Rod stuff is inspired from the forward in Roddy Pipers book 'In The Pit With Piper: Roddy Gets Rowdy'. The forward was written by Bret and he spoke very highly and affectionately of Piper. **

"**As the years went by, I found myself in numerous situations where I desperately needed some good advice, and I often joked about shining a spotlight in the sky like Batman and Roddy would always be there. I could always trust Roddy, knowing that his advice wasn't just good, it was the best. I was able to work my way up in the business, forever grateful for his counsel." "…I followed Roddy like a Sioux brave followed Crazy Horse. He was a real warrior, who could truly lay claim to being chief. In the world of professional wrestling, the true giants don't always face one another, sometimes they stand side by side facing the world. Thanks, Roddy, for being a true friend and a hero. And that's a shoot."—Bret "The Hitman" Hart. **

**So, that's that. Apologies that this ch has taken quite awhile, but honestly this story will be a slow update due to the research, effort, and just channeling the emotions of it all. It's a hard thing to do sometime but I am continuing. Also, congrats to WWEsAngelNef for finishing her BHBK epic which highly inspired me to try my own. Heart to Hart, if you haven't read it, go do it. **

Birmingham was soon enough in the rearview mirror. 'I AM A DYKE' was Shawn's last signature as a wrestler in that little hole. It was on the back of some unfortunate girls jacket, she had opted for Shawn's signature, but walked away with a cruel joke instead. A reprimand was in order, but Shawn had lost his cool maintaining the writing on the jacket was a joke, and by god, wasn't he sacrificing his body to make this Fuller shithead money? For this fuck-off little promotion in the middle of The Asshole of Alabama? The next day, there was no more fuck-off little promotion. Shawn walked out after being told he and Marty were being given their two weeks notice. Marty followed.

Next stop, Tennessee. Jerry Jarrett ran the territory there, and quick as a lick Shawn had been able to get a job for himself and Marty and they were moved to Nashville, sharing a one-bedroom sty with The Nasty boys and having a grand old time again. Life was looking up again, and the fog of depression Shawn had wallowed in down in Birmingham had not followed, but had stayed where it belonged, down there in The Asshole.

In Memphis Shawn and Marty turned heel. Jerry Lawler ran Memphis and he liked the idea. Being heels allowed them much more opportunities, and felt like a breath of freedom. Better yet—they were good at it. If Shawn didn't want to be bothered with a fan, he could tell them to go fuck off, and it was a-ok, because that's what heels do. Wrestling life was going well, and so was the social scene. There was nothing like running around Nashville or Memphis with Sags, Knobbs, Double J, and Marty. Well, almost Marty.

Things were starting to get a little strained between the two constant companions. It wasn't a case of constant arguing, but being together so much—more than most married couples, Shawn once remarked—seemed to be wearing on them. Shawn felt in his heart that the tension was there because he had crossed a line in their friendship where he was hoping for more, and Marty was still standing there staring at the line, trying to figure out what it was, and not especially wanting it. He loved Shawn as much as a friend can, the blond was close to his heart, but there was something there that kept anything really deep from happening. It wasn't any sort of denial or fear of 'that sort' of relationship, because Shawn and Marty had fooled around and slept together numerous times. Marty wasn't wary of being with another man. Marty was like a dead end street, and Shawn was getting tired of driving that way, only to have to turn around again.

One night, after yelling something very similar to that to Marty, Shawn kicked his best friend out for the night. Marty would have never left on his own, irately and slamming the door, like Shawn probably would have had the arguments roles been reversed. But just then Shawn was tired of seeing Marty's blue eyes and easy smile, and the nothingness that was behind them. He was tired of shallow, dead-end street Marty, tired of trying to dig for something that wasn't there. He shoved a bewildered Marty into the hallway and slammed the door, throwing a shoe at it, just for good measure. The shoe 'clunked' against the door, and fell to the floor and rolled over on its side, like a strange looking dead dog. Shawn pulled his fingers through his hair, tears pricking at his eyes. Sags missed the blow up, he was holed up in the tiny bathroom, having his own sort of blow up. Knobbs was sprawled onto the bed drinking beer from a bottle and seeming bored with it all. Jeff was there too. He'd disappeared down to the lobby to get a can of pop, but instead was down there kicking the stubborn machine which just kept taking his quarters like they were tasty little candies. Knobbs watched Shawn pace, stepping over trash and junk that was carelessly strewn across the floor of their Memphis hotel room.

"Micheals…you a fan of The King? Ya know, Elvis." Knobbs curled his lip when Shawn stopped his pacing, and glanced over at him. "Oh Shawn…" Knobbs laughed, took a swig of his beer, and sang off key to the blond who stood with his arms crossed over his chest. "Baby lemme be, your teddy bear. Put a chain around my neck, an' lead me anywhere. Oh let me be…your teddy bear!"

Shawn's lips quirked into a small smile.

"You want me to put a chain around your neck and lead you around?"

"Nah. Sags wouldn't like ya steppin' in on his territory." Knobbs took another pull of his beer, and motioned Shawn over to the couch, handing a bottle to him. Shawn took it and sat down. He pulled the top off and took a long drink. It was cheap, warm, and stale. Perfect. "So you fuckin' like Elvis or not?"

"Oh yeah, I love Elvis. Elvis—is the best. You know what? I'm gonna be the Elvis of professional wrestling one day." Shawn poked Knobbs' bicep. "'Cept when it's my time to go, I hope it's not on a toilet."

"Thats all great Shawn, I think you'd look sexy in a sparkly white jumpsuit."

"You know it baby." Shawn hooked and arm behind his head and laid back a little, feeling better.

"Ooh well in that case—I have an idea." Knobbs grinned over the top of his beer bottle. Before he could spring his brilliant shenanigan onto Shawn, Jarrett barged into the room.

"Dang it! Ah am all outta quarters—every last son of a bitchin' one! That mean ol' machine down there took 'em all!" Jeff pouted, and held his hand out palm up. "Knobby, ya got a quarter for ol' Dub J?"

"What the fuck, since when do I have money to hand out for free!"

Jeff pouted, and scrapped the toe of his cowboy boots against the carpet.

"Shawn…how 'bout you?"

"Quit that pretty poutin' and take this." Knobbs said as Shawn shook his head, and mimicked Jeff's pout. Knobbs handed Jeff a beer. The blond flipped a curl out of his face, and sat himself down between Shawn and Knobb's and popped the cap off his beer.

"Now, Knobbs…what was this fine plan you were gonna tell me about?" Shawn asked, grabbing a pillow and whapping Jarrett lightly with it.

"Alright Shawn. Well see here, I was thinkin'-"

"Oh mah god!" Jeff sat up straight, feigning shock. "Someone hold onto mah hat! Knobbs was thinkin' it can't be!"

"Shut up!" Shawn laughed, hitting Dub J a little harder with the pillow.

"We oughta go to Graceland. Tonight."

Shawn stopped with the pillow poised for a third assault. His eyes were wide, his jaw dropped.

"Graceland? _Thee_ Graceland?"

"There's only one that I know of." Knobbs retorted, reaching over Jeff to take Shawn's paused pillow, and hit Jeff with it.

"Now you just stop that ya big bullies!" Jeff tugged the pillow away from Knobbs, who put up little effort in stopping him. "What ya'll mean 'let's go to Graceland'? Knobby ah know you ain't too fast up here…" Jeff tapped the side of his head with his finger. "But if ya look over yonder…" Jeff motioned towards the window. "It's dark as pitch outside. Graceland's closed!"

Shawn rolled his eyes.

"That doesn't mean ya can't get in…right Knobbs?" Shawn smirked.

"Ah, I like a man that thinks like I do!" Knobbs burst into laughter, and finished off the last swig of his beer. He tossed the bottle aside, and started on a new one.

Jeff looked from Shawn, to Knobbs, and back to Shawn. From the bathroom, there was a 'whoosh' sound.

"Ya'll ain't suggestin' that we…what…break inta…Graceland?"

"Ooh now Dub, I wouldn't put it _that_ way exactly. More like…sneak in."

"Infiltrate." Shawn put in.

The door to the bathroom sprung open.

"Whew! I wouldn't suggest goin' in there for a while. Maybe…a couple weeks." Sags motioned towards the bathroom, and a couple of groans and one voice braying in laughter came from the men on the couch.

"Jesus Christ, smells like somethin' gone an' _died _in there!" Jeff wailed, and pinched his nose between his fingers.

"You stink up the place worse than Jarrett here stinks up a wrestling ring!" Shawn teased, nudging Jeff, who looked less than amused.

"Hey! Ya gumpfaced baboon—ah'm a damn good wrestler and ah'm gonna be a top draw one a' these days. You wait an' see! All of ya just wait and see. Everybody's gonna be begin to see ol' Double J Jeff Jarrett." Jeff smiled, and patted Shawn's shoulder. Shawn's comic expression made The Nasty boys both laugh, and Sags grabbed a beer and popped the top.

"Gumpfaced baboon?" Shawn huffed. "Jarrett, if a baboon had a face like this, it'd be the sexiest baboon ever. Hugh Heffner would want that baboon. He'd change his harem to Playboy Baboons."

Sags and Knobbs were in fits now, and Jeff was almost double over too, laughing in a painful way that made tears streak down his face.

"Instead a' bunny ears an' a cute little tail, the Playboy Baboons would hafta wear plastic red buttcheeks…" Jeff leaned onto the wall, laughing as if all the alcohol the Nasty Boys had consumed during the day had somehow made him the one to receive the drunken effects.

"Damn, you blonds are just too much." Sags grinned at the two smaller men, and gulped some of his beer. "So what the hell are we doin' tonight? Raisin' some hell?"

And that brought them full circle back to Graceland. Shawn and Jeff tip-toed along in the darkness, watching their impromptu shenanigan unfold under the inky cover of night. Shawn could hear Jeff's nervous breathing behind him as they moved quietly, a contrast to the blundering of the other two.

"Ssh!" Shawn hissed. "You're gonna get us caught!" He whispered, motioning in the dark drawing his finger across his neck in a 'cut it out' gesture, even though no one could see it.

"We can't get caught! Ah'm too pretty for jail!" Jeff moved closer to Shawn, and whispered against his ear. "We ain't gonna get caught, are we?"

"Hell no." Shawn sent back, confidently. It was probably the alcohol which had given him the confidence that they would no doubt pull this off, but he wasn't about to admit that to Jeff, or himself.

"Knobbs—Sags, get your asses over here and boost us!" Shawn hissed in the darkness. His hands were reaching out to touch the wall surrounding Elvis's home. The two larger men were soon caught up to the blonds.

"Thought you'd never ask." Sags chuckled, and boosted Shawn over, make it a point to put his hands in all the most opportune places as he did so. Jeff followed, hoisted up by Knobbs who gave Jeff's ass a hearty squeeze. Jeff landed on his feet next to Shawn, and rubbed at his molested rear end.

"That was mah ass!" Jarrett hissed to Kobbs, after he and Sags were both over the wall as well.

"I know." Knobbs replied, and though he couldn't see Knobb's smirk in the darkness, Jeff knew it was there.

"Now what?" Shawn asked, and Sags took the first steps. The four of them began walking up Elvis's driveway. It wasn't such a great plan, because they were soon kicked out by a couple of guards. Without much other option, the four just moved to a different spot, hopped the wall again, and snuck towards the gravesites. Jeff and Shawn ran ahead, soon they were both knelt in front of The Kings' grave. Shawn trailed his fingertips over the cool stone, along the engraved letters of his name, the moment seemed surreal. Jeff removed his cowboy hat, and held it reverently against his heart, as his eyes scanned over the name catching glints of pale moonlight. Shawn leaned in closer to the stone, and pressed his lips lightly to the marker. His lips left behind their soft kiss, tinted with cheap beer, and awe. The two men lay down against the grass, looking up into the starry sky trying to process just where they were and what it all meant to them.

Knobbs and Sags had huffed their way over too, but Shawn and Jeff barely noticed them as they watched stars wink against the midnight sky, like rhinestones glimmering against velvet. Shawn felt a slight twinge, as he watched a finger of mist pass over the moon. Some part of him wished Marty had been here with them, and he told himself that maybe he'd snapped too hard at him. Despite being right next to Jeff, their bodies nearly touching as they lay upon the manicured grass, a tide of loneliness washed over him. The night sky was so vast, and it was making Shawn feel like nothing more than a grain of sand floating around in the endless universe. His fingers brushed Jeff's and then wrapped together. Jarrett's hand was warm, and soft, and it would do to give Shawn just a bit of comfort for the moment. Once they were back at the hotel, he planned to finish any beer that was left over and then get someone to go to bed with him. He glanced over to Jeff, his pretty features outlined with the silvery light of the moon, his long golden hair seeming aglow.

"Hey…" Jeff said in a whisper, tilting his head so his baby blues met Shawn's. "We better get outta here 'for we get tossed out on our fannies again."

Shawn nodded, and picked himself up. He offered his hand to help Jeff up, noticing that Sags was already climbing back over the small fence that guarded the gravesites. He and Jeff followed, easily getting over, but when it was Knobbs turn his foot caught and he toppled over making a bunch of racket and a stream of loud curses.

"Shit!" Sags swore, and he and Shawn took off running for the brick wall as security finally noticed them.

"HEY! Ya'll wait for me!" Jeff cried, and sprinted after them leaving Knobbs on his own. Jeff easily caught up to the other two, Shawn gave him a grin as he looked back over his shoulder, and then he couldn't help but laugh when he saw Knobbs far behind, huffing and puffing to try and catch up. The four made it back out and managed to dodge security, and were soon back in their room. Sags and Knobbs were looking for the rest of their beer, and Shawn was behind a locked door with Jeff, enjoying the way the cheap beer tasted on Jeff's hot skin.

xxxx

Across the country a man Shawn had so briefly known in a locker room he didn't think he'd ever see again, Bret was spending some down time with his crew which at the moment consisted of Anvil, Jimmy Hart, Davey, and Dynamite. They were hanging out in the hotel bar, and Bret was mostly listening to the others banter, Davey and Dynamite in their English accents. The occasional boom of Davey's hearty laughter, and the cartoonish expressions of Jim as he stroked his beard, made Bret's lips curve with a small amused smile. His eyes were hid behind a pair of shades, something he'd found to be quite helpful. He'd originally started wearing his sunglasses to hide how nervous he was during promos, but it had soon became a trademark to his character, and an occasional accompaniment outside the ring, depending on what his mood was. Tonight he was in a lower place than he'd like to be. He was feeling down and he didn't like that feeling at all, but even more, he didn't want to be questioned about it. So he wore his sunglasses in a dimly lit bar and watched his family and friends have a good time through them as he nursed a beer that he wasn't really interested in.

The rest of them were loud, having a grand time, and Bret was staying pretty quiet or as he liked to say 'reserved'. Now and then he'd doodle on a napkin, making a cartoon of one of them, or the bartender who had the big nose, or the woman seated on one of the barstools who had massive breasts which her shirt could barely contain. Sometimes life seems like nothing more than some strange cartoons, the people hiding behind caricatures. Or maybe that was just him. He pushed the doodled napkins away and took a drink of his beer. Jimmy nudged him, urging him into the conversation and horseplay that was unfolding. With how drunk and loud Davey was becoming, the group was bound to get tossed out soon anyway. Bret wadded one of the napkins in his hand and tossed it at Davey playfully, telling him to shut up, which just got the big man going more and made Bret laugh at him. Dynamite too was going on about something, but all the alcohol in his system had made his accent obliterate most of the words coming out of his mouth. Bret could barely understand him.

The loudness of the bar increased once more as a new group of rowdies strolled in. This was the ultimate clique off camera, their leader the ultimate rebel, and a man who Bret admired. He admired Piper because he was a _real_ man in a world of facades. He did love his partying and his 'frat' brothers as Rod referred to them, but he was also a stand up guy who always had time for his fans, always shook hands, and when you shook hands with a man like Rod it really meant something. Bret could remember when he first came into the WWF in '84. At that time Rod was at the top of the card as the company's number one heel. He didn't have to give Bret or anyone else the time of day, but he did. Roddy had been kind to him, had welcomed him, and given him so much advice that Bret had been happy to have as a young man just beginning in the 'F. Over the course of conversations and a strengthening friendship, the two men had learned that they were actually distant cousins, and from that day on always referred to each other as 'cuz'. Bret gave Rod a little wave as the Hot Rod and the group of guys he hung with—never for political reasons, but for pure friendship and love—moved to a free table. Rod caught the wave before he'd sat down and immediately left his seat in order to go over and say hello to Bret and his clan.

The only problem with Rod was that he was a very intuitive man, and Bret's sunglasses did no good to hide his doldrums from that man. Rod clapped him on the shoulder, grinning big. He scratched at his ear, then enveloped Bret into a bear hug that would have knocked a smaller man out of his chair. Bret stiffened a little, and patted Rod's back reluctantly. He did love the guy but where as Rod was all over the top, and not bothered by public displays of affection, Bret was at the other end of the spectrum, and hugging a man wasn't something he did often—especially not in front of a bunch of people in a public place.

"Thanks Rod."

"How ya been cousin Bretty!" Roddy held up his finger in a 'one moment' gesture, ducked over to the table next to the Hart group, and asked the couple if he could borrow one of the empty chairs, promising to bring it back and apologizing for running off with it. He seated himself next to Bret, his eyes glittering and his smile making his whole face expressive. "What's up with the shades? It's practically dark as ol' Junior's heart in here!" Junior was Rod's way of speaking about Vince. He laughed and slapped Bret's knee, attempting to liven him a up a bit. Rod was lively enough for ten Brets. Bret pressed his lips together in a tight line before speaking, it was a sign Rod easily picked up on, Bret did that when he was thinking one thing and saying another.

"Fine Rod, just fine. How 'bout yourself? Rowdy as ever I guess?"

"Oh yeah—'course what else would I be?"

The two men began to talk, Bret leaving his group up to whatever trouble they were finding for themselves. Rod's group had started drinking without him, but catching up with Bret was more important than anything else and Rod knew that something was bothering the dark-haired man. After a while Rod pulled him a bit closer, and spoke lowly, asking him straight out what was going on. Bret might have denied anything but not with Rod, the guy could smell a lie from a mile away, and besides, Bret held dear any advice Roddy might share with him.

"Let's talk somewhere more private, cuz. Okay?" Roddy gave Bret's shoulder a little squeeze, and went back to his buddies to excuse himself from the group for that night. Bret said nothing, he just slipped away from his table and met Roddy outside the bar. Rod slung his arm loosely around Bret's shoulders, steering them towards the elevator and once off of that, towards his room. The arm around his shoulders was a bit less awkward than the hug, and Bret reasoned in his mind that it wasn't such a big deal since they were family anyway.

The two of them spent hours talking about all sorts of things, sitting on Rod's bed, sharing a few laughs. Bret's shades came off early on—because Roddy stole them and only gave them back to Bret after threatening to flush them down the toilet if he dared put them back on. Bret put the shades into his coat pocket and wasn't much bothered anymore anyway, he trusted Rod and there was no need for him to hide his telling eyes anymore. As the night wound down, Rod began to reminisce about some times he and Ric Flair had spent together in the seventies, and early eighties. Bret could see the change in Rod when he spoke of Ric. Although Roddy's face was often adorned with a happy grin that even verged on the edge of looking dopey (except if he was angry), something in that smile and in his eyes changed when he spoke of Ric. Bret could see the fondness Roddy had for the platinum playboy ran deep. In a part of his mind he knew about the relationship there, but it wasn't something he really wanted to think about. Roddy was one of the toughest sobs he knew and one of the greatest men he had the pleasure of knowing, and to attach all the things to Rod that being _that way_ meant, he just couldn't do it. Roddy was looking at him in an odd way, as if he was trying to read some puzzle on Bret's face.

Rod had his own suspicions, but he would never do something as bold as to come right out and ask Bret. Bret's private life was his own and if he didn't want to share it then Rod would not drag it out of him. Bret was man who kept his cards close to his heart, and Roddy respected that, although he suspected it might do him some harm some day, not to really open up to someone. Instead, Roddy decided to just test the waters, just poke his toe in so to speak, and see what the reaction was. He figured he knew already, but he went ahead anyway.

"Bret…ya know me and Ric go way back. The guys a fuckin' nutcase, jeez. But lemme tell ya somethin', he's the best friend I've ever known, other than my wife. I love that crazy bastard just as much as I love my Kitty and I don't see nothin' at all wrong with that. This life we live here when we're out on the road doin' this, it's hard Bret, and it's lonely. Sometimes a guys just gotta find someone else that understands that, and there ain't no devoted fan or ring rat who really does. The only people who really, really understand this part of our lives are all the other men that do it with us, ya know? You don't know those ropes 'less you've fought between 'em. You don't know the lonely roads like we do, 'less you've spun your wheels in those ruts just the same. You see what I mean, Bret? I think it's alright turnin' to each other like that. You hafta turn to someone, or else…the darkness is just gonna eat you alive." He took Bret's hand, in a gesture of caring, nothing more. "You're my family, Bret. I ain't got a lot of family and the ones I do have are my life. You mean a lot to me, I don't wanna see you end up like so many guys I've known who try to go through this business alone. Ya can't do it, Bret. You do that and you end up in a dark place, fucked up on drugs or booze and I don't mean in the fun way. You understand?"

Bret pulled his hand away from Rod's. He did understand, but he didn't want to. If he allowed himself to read between the lines, he might think that Rod guessed at the secret part of Bret's heart, and that his advice was meant not only for 'men like us' who are wrestlers, but for _'men like us'_ who Bret _wasn't._

"Oh…yeah sure. I understand. I mean, wrestling…it is a tiring business and um…ya gotta have close friends around you to lean on. That's what you're sayin' right? Well I have those guys down in the bar actin' like fools, and I have you. I'd say I'm alright, Hot Rod."

Both of them knew that was not what Rod had meant, exactly, but he let it go.

"I hope so, Bret. I hope you're alright." He smiled at the other man. "Well listen, I better get down an see if I gotta drag Acey-Bob outta the bar. The guy likes his whisky! You take care of yourself cuz, and you need anything, you call ol' Rowdy!"

The two of them left Rod's room. One headed back to the bar, and one headed to his room, fingering the sunglasses that were in his coat pocket.


	5. Chapter 5

Word began to spread of two heels by the name of Shawn Michaels and Marty Jannetty, who were doing well in the Jerry Jarrett's Tennessee territory. On a day of opportunity, Jerry called the boy into his office, and told them that Verne Gagne from up North had caught wind of what Shawn and Marty were up to in the South, and he wanted a piece of it. Gagne wanted Shawn and Marty to travel to Minneapolis to work a few shows. Jerry was a good man who enjoyed seeing young men succeed in the business, so he gave Shawn and Marty the okay to work for both companies, if they wanted to.

Of course it was a big opportunity, so Shawn and Marty accepted. The two of them began traveling from Memphis to Minneapolis to wrestler for both promotions, keeping their image as heels in Memphis, but flip-flopping to faces when in Minneapolis. It was easy to do since each region had their own television programs which were localized to that area only. That allowed them have their duel roles and explore both sides of the coin.

Minneapolis was a pretty good run. Shawn and Marty got to hold the belts, and the Nasty Boys had moved back to the AWA just months before they got their ticket to join, so it didn't feel much different from Memphis. Jeff Jarrett was the only one from the group who was left back in Memphis, working for his father. When Shawn and Marty showed back up to work their Memphis shows, they often crashed with Jeff at his apartment. On some nights when Shawn was really drunk and fucked up, he'd kick Marty out just like old times, and he'd turn to beautiful blonde Jeff Jarrett with that unmistakable need in his eyes. Other times, Marty would remain and he'd just sit back and watch, not really seeming to care that his lover was hot and sweaty with another man who moaned beautifully in his southern drawl.

Jeff however, couldn't help the jealously that lit him up when Marty and Shawn became affectionate in front of him. It wasn't often, but it was often enough. Jeff cared for Shawn, and he knew he cared more than Marty. There was always some odd shallowness to the dark haired man, that Jeff couldn't quite explain. His emotions seemed to be lacking, and he certainly didn't bring Shawn the kind of fiery passion that Jeff did. Sometimes Marty just seemed plain awkward when he and Shawn began to get frisky while crashing with Jeff. The thing was, Shawn was often to wasted to really know it. Jeff often wondered if Shawn could feel like he did, the passion that radiated between the two of them and lacked between Shawn and Marty, but dismally, Jeff figured the answer was probably "no".

When Shawn and Marty were gone North, Jeff couldn't help to become lonely for Shawn. In his mind, they'd grown close, but he was painfully aware that Shawn's thoughts were different from his. He often laid awake at night, staring at the shadowed ceiling, wondering if he meant nothing more to Shawn than a pretty fuck buddy to turn to when he got the notion.

Up in Minneapolis Shawn and Marty did very well, and they began to want a little more. There was talk that Gagne had given Curt Henning a guarantee, and Shawn wanted one for he and Marty too. Marty, the ever loyal companion, went along with Shawn and found himself in Verne's office after a show one night.

"What do you _mean_ 'NO'?" Shawn huffed, completely offended by Verne's answer. He turned to Marty, running a hand through his sweat damped long locks, an expression of arrogance and disbelief mingling on his pretty face. "Can you believe that, Jan?"

Marty stood off a bit, keeping quiet, not knowing how to respond. It really wasn't fair, but then again, Verne ran the show and it was his choice. Shawn felt entitled, and had found out otherwise, and now was time for the usual bitch fit to occur. Marty hoped this stunt wouldn't piss Gagne off at them and screw them over again, but if something did happen, they still had Memphis, so maybe Shawn was right to demand something extra for their troubles.

"Ya listen here, Verne—Marty and me, we're the most fuckin' over guys that you got! Do you have wads of stupid stuffed in your ears or somethin'? Don't you hear how those people explode when we go out there? Don't you see how we—how I—lay it all in that damn ring for you, for those people, I give _everything_ and then when that's gone, I give the nothin' I have left. And we can't even get a god damn fuckin' guarantees outta your ass?"

Verne glared over his desk, but when he spoke back after letting Shawn rant, he managed to keep his voice pitched low, but it was obviously hard-laced with his annoyance. It wasn't just tonight, he was fed up with the way Shawn and Marty—but mostly Shawn—had behaved in general since coming to work for his promotion. It was true they were good in the ring, but outside of it, there was hardly anyone who could put up with them. The Nasty boys didn't seem to mind, the four of them were pre-established friends, but the rest of Verne's roster seemed to be in a constant file in and out of his office with complaints about those two young ones on their lips, and now this? This was that straw people always talk about; the one that broke the camels back.

"You're the one that needs to listen, Michaels. This is my game, and I run it how I see fit. As far as I'm concerned the two of you don't deserve a guarantee. You're both a couple of young punks and with that kind of a chip on you're shoulder, you're never gonna get anywhere in this business. You only get to be an arrogant son-of-a-bitch after you've paid your respects to the other arrogant sons-of-bitches that came before you, and you little shits don't know the meaning of the word respect. You think you're top shit? Well let me tell you somethin', you're half right."

Shawn's lips pressed into a tight line, and his eye twitched irately at the man behind the desk. He felt Marty take his wrist and say meekly: 'Come on Shawn, let's just go'. Shawn snatched his wrist away from Marty and with a sweep of his hands, shoved everything off of Gagne's desk and onto the floor, raging and cursing, he tore around the office tearing it to pieces, knocking things over. Marty grabbed Shawn around the waist, wanting to just get out of there. AWA was now officially blown.

"We don't need you!" Shawn yelled, as Marty pulled him out of the office. During the whole fit, Verne had just sat with a hard stare on his face, behind his desk, watching Shawn's ridiculous flip out. "We don't need you, ya sorry motherfucker!" Shawn screamed. "We QUIT!"

Marty kicked the door shut behind them, struggling to hold onto his fighting partner. Shawn wrenched away from Marty, and shoved him hard as he could, knocking the wind out of his silent friend. Shawn straightened his shirt.

"Let go of me." He swept his hair back from his face, still panting with his anger, and letting it surge through him and slowly wind down. Marty kept his distance, rubbing at his rib cage a little. He looked frightened, like a rabbit, and that look on poor Marty's face melted the rest of Shawn's anger away. "Come here, Jan. Let's go. Let's just go." He wrapped his arm around Marty's waist to pull him close as they walked out of the building.

"What are we gonna do now?" Marty asked quietly, not sure if it was a good time to ask or not. "Just go back to Memphis?"

Shawn shook his head as they walked down the sidewalk back towards their dive hotel room.

"There's nothing in Memphis for us, not really. We have to start thinking bigger, Marty, or we're not gonna go anywhere. I was thinkin' we could take off for Japan. Guys make a good living there and with our style? Man, it'd be a real good fit."

Mart nodded slowly. Japan sounded interesting, a good change of pace, and if that's where Shawn was going to be, then that's where Marty would be too. He smiled over at the fiery Texan. Shawn's eyes met his, and he remembered how beautiful Marty's big blue eyes were. Shawn often forgot to _really_ look at them. A small smile worked onto Shawn's face too. He knew without Marty having to say it, that Marty would follow Shawn to Japan, if that was really what was in store for them next.

"Come on J. Let's get back to our room, get shit-fuckin'-faced, and we'll leave for Memphis tomorrow and figure this out when we get there. Ol' Jarrett senior loves us, so we still have that for the time being."

Shawn and Marty continued to wrestle in Memphis, where they stayed with Jeff again. Japan was on the horizon. The more they talked about it, the better the idea seemed. The two of them would have no doubt ended up there, had a better offer not fallen into their hands.

Shortly after they'd quit AWA, Shawn and Marty go a call from Vince McMahon. Unbeknownst to Shawn and Marty, Pat Patterson had been coming to their AWA shows, and he'd convinced Vince to give them a second shot.

"I'm bringing you back." Vince had said. It wasn't a question, it was a statement. "But I'm gonna tell you Shawn, I'm getting a _ton_ of heat about this from the rest of the guys. So you and Marty better be on your best behavior. One more thing—_one_ more thing…and you two are done, _for good._ Are we clear?"

Shawn had almost been too stunned to answer. When Vince had let them go nearly a year ago, he had felt like his life had ended. Now here it was, beginning again. A man didn't often get a second chance at his dream, but here it was. He accepted eagerly and assured Vince that he would have no trouble out of the infamous duo.

xxx

July 7, 1987 found Shawn and Marty ready to break back into the World Wrestling Federation. The summertime heat and humidity was excruciating. Sweat poured from them as they made their way across the parking lot to the small arena, where the house show that night was going to be held. The summer bake didn't matter, it made Shawn feel even more alive. That night Marty and Shawn wrestled a tag team called "The Conquistadors". They made sure to keep quiet in the locker room, and offend no one. They could hear the voices talking about them, some hushed, and other blatant, but they said not one word. Shawn had already blown multiple chances with his temper and arrogance. The AWA thing, he couldn't really care less about, but WWF was big things, _the biggest._ He wasn't about to make the mistake of failing here again.

Shawn merely paid a quick glance to one corner of the locker room, where a smattering of pink and black with a side of British patriotism stood. They were no doubt speaking of Shawn. Anvil kept looking at him with hard eyes, stroking that mean looking goatee. Big Jim made no attempt to keep his voice down, and neither did Davey. His thick accent accompanied by his laughter was unmistakable. The only one who spoke softly was Bret, who kept fiddling with his glasses, taking them off and then putting them on again, as if he was unsure if he could handle the nakedness of being without their dark protection. He was like a child who hides his head beneath the covers, afraid to see the monster he knows is in his closet, but he just can't help the urge to peek once in a while, and see if the shadows have grown fangs.

"Wha's got ya so antsy, Hart?" Davey said, lowering his voice, speaking to Bret. "An' stop ya fiddlin' with them damn glasses!" Davey reached out and grabbed Bret's shades off his face, and in a friendly, teasing manner, held them up above his head. Bret sighed, rolled his eyes, and rested his hands on his hips.

"Come on Davey, I'm not in the mood for this."

"Grumpy ass." Jim ribbed, poking Bret in the side, bringing a coughed sort of laugh from the Hitman. Jim knew very well that Bret hated when he did that, because it tickled, but Jim was fond of doing it anyway.

"Stop that, get outta here…" Bret shooed Jim's hands away from him. "Stop touchin' all over me, what kind of a fag do ya think I am?"

Davey snorted, covering his mouth with one big hand as he laughed, the action doing little to really muffle the sound.

"What kind of a fag? Hell I don't know…there's different types?" Jim poked at Bret.

"Stop it! Just—shut it, Jim. Ya know what I mean. And you…" Bret snatched his shades back from Davey. "Don't touch the shades." With a serious scowl on his face, Bret examined his sunglasses, bending one of the arms a bit. "Ya fuckin' bent 'em."

"Oh baby Jesus, Mary, an' bloody Joseph—give 'em back an' I'll fix 'em good as brand spankin' new." Davey held his hand out, palm up, but Bret refused to surrender the shades. Instead he put them back on, which caused both his brother-in-laws to erupt into laughter this time. The sunglasses sat awkwardly cocked on Bret's all too serious face.

"You're gonna fuckin' get it." He said to those two, with a small sigh, and a shake of his head. Despite his mood, his lips couldn't help but curl into a small smile at Davey, who was far too amused at the situation. The big man was practically doubled over laughing, his curly hair falling into his face, which was wet with laughter tears. Bret opened his locker, and peered at the small magnetic mirror that always put up. "Aw…man. You owe me a new pair, Davey Dog."

Shawn and Marty finished changing, and left the locker room. Shawn could feel eyes watching his back as they exited, but most of all, he felt strangely that he could feel one specific pair of eyes on him once more, looking over a bent pair of sunglasses.

After the show, Shawn and Marty hit up a bar they'd heard their coworkers had commandeered. The figured that they'd better try and mingle a little bit, so as not to come off arrogant as they had been before. The heat from outside followed them inside, but in a different form. Being so hated by these guys was a worse heat than the unbearable temperature outside. Even with the shadowy fall of evening, the summer swelter had yet to really cool off much. Before the two of them could even sit down, Dynamite Kid approached them and in his thick accent, gave them the advice that they ought to go around and shake hands with all the other guys, or 'blokes' as he put it.

"I don't care who ya are or whatcha done, but thing is ya got a shit ton a' heat from the other fellas. If ya keep off to yourselves an' don't talk to none of 'em, it's only gonna get worse. Their gonna think you're a couple a' snobby little pricks. Go on, ya gotta jump in an' show 'em otherwise. Least shake hands and say hello."

Shawn glanced around the room at some of the faces staring their way.

"Uh, well thing is…" He rubbed at the back of his sweaty neck. "We don't wanna cause any problems here."

"But that's just how it is. They think you're a couple prima donnas. Ya do the right thing and show 'em a bit of respect by shakin' their hand and sayin' hi, and ya don't owe 'em nothin' else after that. Ya just can't come in an' not talk to anyone."

"Oh. Well we…uh, didn't know." Shawn thanked Dynamite, and he and Marty headed over to the bar, still a little unsure. The guy seemed sincere enough, but he could be setting them up. After some debate and a couple of shots, Shawn pulled Marty off of his stool and they made their rounds. They went to each guy they recognized from the roster, extended their hands, and gave a simple 'hello'.

Bret noticed Shawn from the table in the back, where he sat with one foot propped lazily on an extra chair. His shower damp hair was held back with those bent sunglasses, which he'd swept up into his hair, because Davey wouldn't quit about how ridiculous they looked on him being crooked. Bret nodded now and then at the conversation between his in-laws, but he wasn't really giving it much attention.

From the moment Shawn and Marty had entered the bar, one of them had commandeered Bret's full attention, and set his nerves to tingling once more. He was going to have to get over this, or at least hide it the best he could. Shawn looked prettier than ever, and Bret couldn't stop watching him move around the bar, the way his tight jeans hugged his tight looking ass, the way his hair fell over his shoulders, the way those captivating blue eyes fell onto him when Shawn approached them.

Bret was thankful for the cover of the table, hiding the embarrassment of the arousal that prodded at his jeans. It took him a moment to realize Shawn had already shook the hands of Davey and Jim, and was now extending his offer to Bret. The pretty hand hung there in the air over their pitcher of beer, waiting for acceptance. Shawn interpreted the wait as a hesitation that Bret was snubbing him, and slowly drew his hand back. Bret leaned over the table and grabbed it. He didn't want to touch Shawn's hand for too long, and yet he wanted to see if it was as soft as it looked. He was flustered. The end result was a handshake that was quick and limp, and had Bret inwardly cursing. He shoved his hands into his lap, rubbing the sweaty cold palms against his jeans.

Lacking such confidence was such a foreign feeling to him, but right now all of his arrogance could not be found. If Shawn had been a woman, Bret would have easily been all over it, flashing her a grin, flirting and pouring on the Bret Hart charm, wooing her with each word and glance. When Shawn was near, he only wanted to hide, because he shouldn't be feeling such things—such a strong attraction. Why couldn't the little fucker have just stayed away and out of the WWF? It would have made life so much easier. But there was the given answer to that, Shawn was good in the ring. He'd been good the first time around, and the second time he'd shown that he'd gotten even better.

"Just wanted to…uh…say hello." Shawn said, glancing at Marty, whose extended hand was being completely and awkwardly ignored.

"That's good." Bret replied, his eyes trying to look at something other than Shawn's. They fell finally onto Marty's hand. "Oh—sorry. Hi." Bret took Marty's hand, being sure to give it a manlier reception than Shawn's received. Bret decided to shut his mouth, and say nothing else. Davey and Jim were giving him odd glances, and Davey was trembling, his lips pressed tight together but his eyes glimmering with the laughter he was so desperately and obviously trying to hold in. The guy looked in danger of explosion.

Shawn nudged Marty, and they went back to their seats at the bar.

"Well, we did what we were supposed to. We mingled. It didn't go too bad." Marty mused, taking a drink of his beer.

Shawn glanced over his shoulder, towards the table at the back where the big British guy and the one with the crazy goatee were bellowing laughter. Bret's face was set into a scowl, his dark, damp hair beginning to dry and frizz up a bit into curls that looked soft, and untamable, completely worthy of being stuck to that handsome face after a bought of mind-blowing sex. Shawn raked his teeth over his lower lip, and moaned softly. He imagined those amazing dark eyes, full of burning, raging, hot-hard lust for him.

"Shawn…you okay?" Marty asked, his voice low, his soft blue eyes smiling at Shawn.

"We need to go." Shawn said, paying for their drinks, not giving Marty time to respond. It really didn't matter if Marty was ready to leave or not, what mattered was that Shawn did, and Marty would unquestioningly follow him.

The two made it back to their hotel room, and Shawn made quick work of being all over Marty, pawing at him and disrobing himself and the other man. Shawn tried to ignore the fact that Marty didn't have enough alcohol in him to have real good sex tonight. The guy always did it better when he was lit. When he wasn't, he managed to make sex into a thing that was dull, mechanical, and quick, as though he was more concerned about getting it over with than actually enjoying Shawn's body writhing beneath his.

Marty went to work right away, stroking and pumping Shawn's twitching erection. He was still and quiet, with watchful eyes, as Shawn moaned and squirmed beneath him.

"Come on Marty, kiss me or somethin' while you touch—I wanna feel more of ya."

Marty leaned into Shawn, softly kissing his lips as he stroked. Shawn surprised him by biting and nipping at his lips, and then forcing his tongue dominantly inside. Shawn's fingers wrapped into Marty's hair and pulled hard at the dark strands. Marty broke the kiss a little, and timidly questioned Shawn, but his answer was for Shawn to shove his head back down and slam their lips back together, teeth clicking, Shawn's tongue filling Marty's mouth once again and urging Marty's to respond. The only response he got was for Marty to wriggle and finally pull out of Shawn's grip, and roll away from him, gently touching his battered and swollen lips.

"Shawn…what are you doin'?"

Shawn sat up, irate and horny as hell.

"What do you mean what am I doin', ain't it fuckin' obvious? Oh yeah, gotta explain things real slow for ya, don't we Marty? I want ya to _fuck_ me Marty. I want it hard, unbridled, full of passion and cursing and…" Shawn shoved Marty down onto the bed, and straddled his waist. "Lemme show you how I want it, Marty. Maybe a hands on lessen will get the point across. Ya only do it decent when you're drunk, and even then, it's still all the same. When you're sober ya just don't know what the hell you're doin, do ya? Haven't ya ever fucked somebody with passion before? With fire? Haven't ya ever made somebody scream your name out an' beg you not to stop?"

Shawn's own words were making him even harder, and Shawn reached for his own erection, and stroked it for a moment. Marty gave him no answer, just looked up at him with an expression that was nearly blank, and just the slightest bit fearful.

"What's wrong, Marty? Ya don't like this? Ya don't want me to kiss you like I fuckin' mean it? Ya don't want me to fuck you like you've never been fucked before?" Shawn's eyes began to burn with tears of rage and hurt. "Well maybe I want ya to kiss _me_ like ya fuckin' mean it—pretend if ya have to I don't give a damn! Don't just take care of me like ya _have_ to, or somethin'! Like it's your fuckin' duty, so might as well get this shit over with, is that what this is?"

"Shawn-" Marty began, timidly, but wasn't allowed to finish. Shawn rolled off him, and yanked him off of the bed, up to his feet, and then shoved him back a couple of steps. "Get the fuck out, GET OUT!" Shawn screamed, grabbing the nearest object to him and throwing it for all he was worth at Marty. The clock sailed by his head, and smashed onto the floor in pieces. Tears streamed down Shawn's face, and he barely heard the rest of the horrible things he yelled as Marty gathered his clothes and dodged Shawn's flying boots.

Marty scrambled into his jeans, barely able to keep his own tears from falling. They filled his eyes and clinged to his long lashes, but didn't fall. He kept himself quiet, the hurt tightening in his chest. He cared for Shawn more than Shawn would probably ever realize, and he tried to show it in his undying loyalty, because he knew he wasn't so good at showing it in other ways. What Marty really wanted right now was to just get away from Shawn's screaming, and drown himself in a bottle. He knew deep down that he and Shawn were only biding their time together, that it would be something that one day would be gone, because he knew that he couldn't give Shawn everything he needed. That failure haunted him often. He would never be good enough for Shawn, or as good as Shawn.

"Go drink yourself ten ways to stupid like ya always do, Marty! Go make love to your fuckin' booze 'cause we all know that's the only thing ya got passion for!" Shawn's boot hit the door as Marty pulled it shut behind him, wiping at the tears that fell once he stepped out into the hallway. Shawn was right about him, and that's what caused the deepest pain.

Shawn stormed around his room, eyes streaming, curses beginning to die on his lips. He found his suitcase, and dug through it, fishing out a small bottle at the bottom. He'd been trying to lay off of these a bit, but tonight called for a couple. He needed to blot it out, and just pass out. Tomorrow morning he'd find Marty somewhere, hung over, and they'd be okay again. That's how things were with Marty. At least one thing Shawn could depend on, was that he would always come back. With a sigh and shaking hands, Shawn popped the pills and swallowed them dry. He scraped his hair back off of his face, and got a pair of sweat pants to put on.

After a little more pacing, he began to find a bit of calm again. After the pills began to kick in, the tension slacked off even more, and he began to think that he should go find Marty now, and drag his ass back into bed so they could both just go to sleep. With a sigh, Shawn went to the door, and stepped out into the hallway. He looked to the left, seeing no one, and then to the right. His eyes stopped on a familiar form that was just down the hallway. It was Bret, with a woman.

He pushed her up against the wall, and she emitted a small squeak of delighted surprise. Her hands swept over the curvy, tanned, muscles of Bret's arms and then gripped his strong shoulders. He smirked down at the woman, an expression of complete confidence, as he pinned her hands to the wall and then kissed her fiercely, their lips chasing each other in a fast paced, hard hitting, battle, that drew moans and sighs from the wanton female. Shawn could hear Bret's name whine out in a needful cry from her puffy lips, her red lipstick smeared, her eyes rolling with pleasure. Bret's hips bucked into her hard, complying with her demand, grinning as she cried out.

"Is that what ya want, baby? Want me to fuck you like you never been fucked before?"

"Yes!" She cried out, arching into him. He had let go of her wrists, and her hands twined into his mess of curls.

"You're gonna remember my name, 'cause you're gonna be screamin' it all night long."

"Ah—g-god!" She whimpered, as Bret's hand latched onto her breast, giving it a good hard squeeze, and pinching at the erected nipple that clearly tented the thin fabric of her shirt.

"Oh yeah…that's it." Bret growled, and lifted her up. Her tiny skirt was rode up so high it might as well have been a shirt. Her long, curvy legs, curled around him. "That's right…I'm your god tonight." He moved her towards the door to his room, fiddled with they key, and they both disappeared inside.

Shawn sank back against his door, his legs feeling unsteady. He was hard as fuck all over again…and pissed as hell that he wasn't that woman, wrapped around Bret Hart.


End file.
